


36 Portland Row

by spud



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen, I thought it would be cute, They have an elderly neighbor because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spud/pseuds/spud
Summary: In 36 Portland Row, Mrs. Margaret Noxbury closely observes the neighbors.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	36 Portland Row

**Author's Note:**

> Does anybody actually know when Lockwood & Co actually takes place? I’ve always assumed it was around our time just with technology not being as advanced because of the Problem. Oh well. Anyways, I chose to base the story in the mid-to-late 2010s.

Mrs. Margaret Noxbury had lived at 36 Portland Row for nearly fifty years. She had moved in as a newlywed, but her dear Phillip had passed only days afterward. 

In her time there, she saw many families come and go. One family, in particular, intrigued her the most. 

She couldn't quite remember their names—Lovett? Lancaster? Her memory wasn't quite what it used to be—but she knew their faces. They all had the same dark hair, the children had the same smile. The parents, it seemed, were collectors, always coming and leaving on trips. Of course they went on less when the children were born, but every two months or so they were gone for a week. 

Margaret was awake one night when the police arrived at number 35. Worried and a bit curious, she strolled across. When she learned of the crash, she demanded to be able to see the children. 

The boy was up in bed—he was too young to have understood what happened anyways—but the girl sat at the kitchen table. A cup of juice was in front of her, untouched. She stared at it, tears staining her face. Margaret went over to her and knelt down beside her. 

She made a whimpering sound, leaning into Margaret. Margaret wrapped her arms around the girl, who was sobbing again.

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours. Margaret sat there, rubbing the girl's back and hair, repeating the same phrase over and over again. 

"It'll be okay. . . Everything will be okay. . ."

Eventually, she fell asleep. Margaret didn't know where her bedroom was, so she laid her down on the couch, throwing a thin blanket over her. Even with a red, puffy face, she looked at peace. Margaret felt a pang in her heart. After all, the girl was an orphan now, and she couldn't have been more than ten. 

Margaret put on her coat, getting ready to cross the street. It was well into the night now, but she wasn't afraid of the ghosts. Not tonight. 

A creak at the top of the stairs startled her. She met eyes with a little boy, who froze like a deer in headlights. He then turned and ran up to the attic, trailing his blanket behind him. Margaret didn't doubt that he had been there the entire night. 

A few years later, Margaret was sorting through the mail. She was bored with it, just bills and advertisements for nursing homes, but a stiff black card caught her attention. 

"What's this?" she said, putting on her glasses. 

It was black, with glittery gold vines in the corners. The letting was also in gold; it was simple, but large. 

**Please join us for a  
CELEBRATION OF LIFE  
in honor of the beloved  
JESSICA LOCKWOOD**

****

**September 19, 1995-June 17, 2010**

****

****

****

**A service will be held at Peaceful Spirit Funeral Home on June 30 at 12:00 pm**

****

**The family asks for no gifts or visits**

Margaret hadn't worn her black dress since her husband's funeral (she was in the hospital for the Lockwood parent's funeral), and she was surprised it still fit. 

The funeral service was lovely, but she still couldn't believe that the girl was dead. She was only fifteen, she had so much life left in her. 

Margaret's thoughts turned to Jessicas's brother. What was his name again? Oh, yes, Anthony. He sat there in the front row, swinging his legs. A glittering sword was tied at his waist; it looked cartoonishly big on him, even though he was tall for his age. He stared blankly ahead of him, not quite looking at anything. After the service, Margaret wanted to talk to him, but he disappeared. 

35 Portland Row remained vacant for the next few years. Margaret was worried that she might never see Anthony again, but he turned up again one day. Even though he was still young, Margaret noticed that he carried himself as if he were someone much older. 

He had started his own agency. Margaret often felt bad for the agents; she had never seen or heard a ghost, already being an adult by the time the problem started, but she knew the danger that those kids put themselves in every night. Every newspaper seemed to bring news about more and more agents—children who had died. 

Thus, she worried about the little agency. 

Her worries came true when she was reading the paper one day. In the obituary section, it mentioned that a certain Robin Whitaker of A.J. Lockwood & Co. had died after being frightened by a Raw-bones. If she remembered correctly, there were three boys there, and he was the ginger one. 

Three months later, Margaret noticed that they had gotten a new agent. It was a girl, with short brown hair and what seemed a fondness for skirts and leggings. From reading the papers, Margaret found out that her name was Lucy Carlyle. 

Margaret had started a collection of articles about the agency—she was proud of them. She started to view them as _her_ children, even though they had never met her. She didn't know about any of the familial relationships (except for Anthony, of course), but she decided that if she ever saw them in trouble, she would do her best to protect them. 

Her bulletin board soon filled up, and she resorted to just pinning the articles to the wall. She hoped to one day get them all framed, but she barely went out anymore and she didn't know if her old bones could take the strain of opening up every one.

Lockwood & Co. had started to gain more and more publicity. The biggest event so far had been the Hope case, and Margaret hoped that they wouldn't get closed by DEPRAC. She had heard about the financial situation they were in (not on purpose, of course. She had been sitting on her front porch knitting while they were, uh, _loudly_ discussing in their kitchen). 

On a Sunday afternoon, Margaret made a pie. Well, she made two—one for her, and one for the agents. However, when she knocked on the door, there was no answer, and Margaret figured that they were all out on an assignment.

She resolved that she would stop by the next week, and to make sure they were home before doing so. 

On Saturday, Margaret’s phone began to ring. She ignored it the first time—she preferred solitude; it was something that came with living alone most of her life—but picked it up when they rang a second time. To her surprise, it was her great-niece, whom she hadn’t heard from in years. 

“Auntie! I heard about that agency across the street from you! Have you seen the paper yet? It’s all over the place—oh, Thomas, _put that down!_ No, don’t step on Mummy’s laptop!—sorry, Aunt Maggie. Anyways, I’d be surprised if you haven’t heard yet.”

Margaret scratched her head. “Heard what, Eliza?”

“About Combe Carey Hall, one of the most haunted houses in the country. I read in the Times that Lockwood and Co. had found the source of the largest haunting there—and helped clear Hugo Black’s name!”

“They did that?” Margaret smiled. “Oh, of course they did! They’re the best agency in London, after all.”

Lockwood & Co. quickly began to get more and more publicity, with Kensel Green and Lavender Lodge being some of their big ones. Margaret didn’t know if anything could have topped the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s tomb, however, but she was soon proven wrong. 

Anthony had hired another assistant. It was a girl, who looked just a bit older than the rest. She appeared constantly immaculate; she consistently arrived to Portland Row at the same time, her closed neatly ironed. Margaret didn’t know her name, but she knew that she did a lot for the company. 

However, Margaret noticed that Lucy started acting differently. The agents didn’t hang around outside their house much, but when Margaret happened to spy them coming in from a case, Lucy seemed more irritable than normal. And, on occasion, when Margaret happened to glance across the street into the kitchen window (which wasn’t often; Margaret may have been many things, but she wasn’t a creep) she saw Lucy talking to what seemed like nobody. 

Margaret rationalized with herself. It had to be one of the boys, just outside the view of the window, right?

The Chelsea outbreak was worrying Margaret, so you can imagine her joy when she read the story about the Aickmere Brother’s shop—and even more so on who was involved. 

But the success there had led to a great blow for the company. Margaret didn’t see Lucy around anymore. 

She was certain that the girl wasn’t dead—the papers would’ve said something about it, surely. Nonetheless, she kept her eyes peeled. 

Margaret had started to keep up with Eliza more often. It was nice to have someone to talk to again; the silence of her house was starting to collapse in on her. 

Months past, and Eliza and her family moved in with Margaret. She had been getting too old to live on her own, and she knew it. It was odd to have a toddler around again; she had to move her fine china into a high cabinet lest Thomas break it all. 

There was laughter in the house again. Margaret couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed. 

One morning, Margaret saw that Lucy was back. She smiled; it was good to know that she was alive and well (or as well as an agent could be). 

Margaret’s health was declining. She was finding it harder to move around and she found herself in the hospital more than she’d have liked. 

Recovering from a surgery, Margaret had been confined to the house. So, she made more conversation than usual.

“How are you, James?” 

James, Eliza’s husband, was startled awake. He had been dozing in a chair in the living room. “Oh, I’m fine, I guess. Thomas has been keeping us awake. He says that there’s a green glowing light in the house across the street.” He sighed. “I can’t see anything, though.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Eliza remarked. “Though I’d be more concerned on _why_ it’s there. They’re an agency, after all. Don’t seem the type to let ghosts run amok in their own house.” She turned a page in her fashion magazine. 

One night, gunshots startled Margaret awake. Her mind immediately jumped to James and Eliza and Thomas, but then she realized that they weren’t in her house. Panic surged again when she _did_ realize where it was coming from. 

There was commotion happening across the street. Faint yelling could be heard, and Margaret had half the mind to confront whoever was threatening the agency. She would’ve, too, if Eliza hadn’t stopped her. 

After reporting it to the police (as she’s sure almost everybody else on the street had) she was jumpy. Quiet tears leaked down her face, and it took her ages to fall back asleep. 

When she woke up, the London sky was covered with smoke. It stemmed from central London, near Fittes house. 

What came next was a surprise to everybody—the Fittes company was not as glamorous or as pure as anybody had thought. It was, in fact, the exact opposite. 

Margaret knew that the papers weren’t telling the entire truth. It was all lies and half-truths, and you’d have to dig deep to find out the actual story. 

“Eliza, darling,” Margaret said. “Do we have any sugar? I think it’s time to make a pie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Easter :)
> 
> I hope y’all like this as much as I liked writing it!


End file.
